


Combat Training Is Not Optional

by FabulaRasa



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 04:41:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/pseuds/FabulaRasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Batman may be the worst personal trainer ever. Or the best, as the new Green Lantern discovers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Combat Training Is Not Optional

"So, we on for the game tonight?" 

Bruce glanced up to see Kyle Rayner's lopsided grin, which he knew was aimed at the person sitting next to him, not at him. The meeting was over, and everyone was moving out, talking and laughing in small knots. Rayner seemed not to understand that at the end of meetings, Clark sat next to Bruce and they talked privately for a few minutes. It was astonishing how many memos this kid was missing. 

"Sure," Clark said with a smile. "You bet." Because Clark always said idiotic midwestern things like _you bet_ and _I like that fine_.

"Cool. I'll be over around six, but I'll stop and pick up some beer first. What's your poison?"

"Anything's fine," Clark said, still smiling.

"Excellent. My buddy just started working at this awesome little artisanal brewery, not too far from your neighborhood. Dueling Monkeys, I think? Something like that. Why don't I pick us up a liter of their evening special?" He had spun a chair around and was straddling it, and Bruce observed that his eyes never left Clark's face. Even his body, which appeared to be in casual repose, leaned slightly in Clark's direction, like a plant to the sun. 

"That sounds good," Clark agreed.

"Awesome. Hey, we could add to the evening's hedonism with a little gambling. I've got a fifty on the Blackhawks. Care to make it interesting?" 

"Care to let the grown-ups have the room?" Bruce's growl wiped the smile from Rayner's face, but really, he had had just about enough. 

"Sure, _Batman_." He said his name like it tasted unpleasant. He stalked off to the conference room doors. 

"Was that necessary?" Clark said as they watched his retreating form. Bruce saw Wally hesitate just a fraction of a second before going through the doors, to avoid having to greet him. If even Wally found you irritating, you had a problem. 

"Yes," said Bruce shortly. "And you should stop encouraging him."

"Is that what I'm doing? Here I thought I was being nice. It wouldn't kill you, you know. The kid has no other friends on the team. He could use a little bucking up."

"He's not on the team," Bruce pointed out. "He's in the probationary period."

"Bruce, come on. He's doing great, cut him some slack. You're really going to stick to the letter of the law when it's the Green Lantern we're talking about?"

"I don't care whether it's Papa Smurf, we're adhering to our bylaws, which exist for a reason. He can be initiated at the end of this year, when his probation is over. Until then, as far as I'm concerned, he's an annoyance. And like I said, you should stop encouraging him. His crush is painfully obvious."

Clark laughed then, wide enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes. "You are excellent for my ego, if nothing else. Trust me, Bruce, he's the new guy on the team looking to bond a little with a fellow teammate. Stop attributing ulterior motives to everyone you meet."

"He's looking to bond all right. And everyone has ulterior motives."

"Not everyone. Not all the time. Look, we're having a conversation right now. You think I have an ulterior motive for sitting here and talking to you?"

"Of course you do. You wish to convince me your friendship with Rayner is harmless, so that I won't suspect just how much you enjoy his adoration."

"That. . ." He watched Clark splutter. "That is completely untrue. And unfair."

The arch of his eyebrow was not visible under the cowl, but that was okay, he knew Clark could infer it. 

"How it is you manage to turn even simple acts of courtesy into. . . I don't even know what. You, my friend, have serious issues. And _your_ ulterior motive is that you want to make me dislike Kyle because you can't forgive him for taking Hal's place, even though you never even liked Hal in the first place."

Bruce sat back and crossed his arms. "I liked Hal. What made you think I didn't like him?"

"The time you said, 'I don't like Hal.' I'm sorry, I mean the nine thousand times you said, 'I don't like Hal.'"

"That didn't mean I wanted to see him replaced," Bruce grumbled. Clark laughed again. He rose and clapped a heavy hand on his friend's shoulder.

"And that is why I love you," he said with a grin. He was still grinning ruefully as he headed toward the door, shaking his head. Bruce stayed at the conference table until he had gone. He flexed his hand in the gauntlet, once, twice. He gave a grim laugh, as at a private joke, before heading out the door to the transport pads. His thoughts were elsewhere, his gaze abstracted as he stalked the sleek corridors, but still, junior members of the League stood respectfully aside when he walked by, or hushed their conversation at the tramp of his boots. The slight stillness that swirled around him as he passed was gratifying.

* * *

"So as it turns out, you were probably right," Clark said hesitantly, two nights later. They were in the cave this time, and Clark was in civvies, which irritated Bruce. He didn't wander around the cave in his pajamas, for God's sake. There was such a thing as respect. But Clark, oblivious as always, was perched on a chair, picking through his Mongolian beef with a thoughtful chopstick, glasses still perched on his nose, and a small duck sauce stain on his rumpled lapel. 

Bruce didn't turn from the keyboard. "About what, in particular?"

"Oh, you know, about Kyle," he said, with transparent off-handedness. He was examining a bamboo shoot. "And things."

"Hah," said Bruce. He didn't stop typing. "Made his move, did he."

"No no, nothing so—crude as that. I was able to, ah. . . put a stop to things."

Bruce spun in the chair at that, and studied him. Clark was acting way more self-conscious than he would have thought, for a clumsy pass gone awry. There was no reason for him to be embarrassed, after all. "Good," Bruce said. He allowed himself a brief vision of Rayner's whiny crestfallen face. 

"Yes," Clark said. He was still frowning into his food. "Well. I. . . there's something you should know. About the way, I, ah, stopped things."

"With your foot in his ass, I hope."

"I didn't want to hurt his feelings."

"A nice 'I'm not gay, get your goddamn hands off me' works pretty well in those situations."

Clark was rubbing at his forehead. "Well, that was not. . . I couldn't really say that, because in the earlier part of the evening we had talked about. . . those kinds of things, and it turns out he—"

"Those kinds of things. You sound like my squash coach at Groton. Why are you blushing like a maiden aunt?"

"I'm not! I'm just—listen, I couldn't say I just wasn't attracted to men, because he knows more about Kryptonians than I thought he did, on account of he has read those particular files in the League database. Let no one say this kid does not do his homework." He set his Mongolian beef down with a dissatisfied thunk.

Bruce was back to looking at him, his eyes narrowed. "Interesting," he said. "Those files are encrypted."

"Yeah, well, apparently not that encrypted. He started talking about how fascinating he found Kryptonians, and their culture, and their customs, and oh by the way had I found it difficult to grow up bisexual in Kansas because he was reading just the other night about the sexual duality of Kryptonians and blah de blah blah shoot me now."

"No, they were well encrypted," Bruce said. He had not known Rayner was capable of that. It would have taken cleverness and no little imagination, not to mention skill, to break his encryption. "There's nothing in his background that would suggest programming abilities of that level. Definitely interesting."

"Please just—can we get back to the subject at hand, please?" Clark's voice sounded pained. "My point is, I couldn't tell him that. So I had to. . . tell him something else. I didn't want to hurt his feelings."

"The kid is a narcissist. You can't hurt a narcissist's feelings."

"He's not a—you know what, just, please listen. I'm trying to tell you something. I didn't exactly plan on it. It sort of just happened. I was saying it before I really knew I was going to say it. I'm guessing that's not the sort of thing that's ever happened to you."

"Not since middle school, but go on."

"Anyway." Clark was pinching his forehead between his fingers in a way that looked painful. "I told him. . . I told him I was already seeing someone."

"Oh." Bruce spun back to the monitors at an incoming message. "Well, that will hold him off for about five seconds. Everyone knows Lois broke up with you, mainly because you've been moaning about it non-stop for a year and a half. Now if we're done with Gays of Our Lives, take a look at what Oracle just sent me. What do you make of that?"

Clark crossed his arms. "That was mildly homophobic."

"Oh for God's sake. Look." 

Clark pulled his glasses off and scanned. "Forward it to J'onn, that looks like League intel. What's it doing in Gotham?"

"Just what I was wondering."

"Bruce, I—there is something I really ought to tell you. Can you listen for just a second?"

"Mm." He sent the transmission on to J'onn, but composed a message to go with it about the need to re-evaluate encryption on the Watchtower system. "I'm listening."

"Well, you're actually not, but okay. The thing is, I didn't tell him I was dating Lois."

Clark didn't say anything more, and Bruce kept typing. Relying on simple terrestrial encryption methods had probably been his error. Nothing like a little Thanagarian tech to foil an enterprising hacker, but he would need to bone up. If Shayera would be willing—the silence in the cave registered, and he looked at Clark, who was looking apprehensively at him. He replayed the last few minutes, blinked. 

"You. . ." He found himself unable to complete the sentence.

"You were on the TV," Clark said desperately. "Some interview about the recent Wayne Foundation grant to Gotham General, I don't even know, it was on mute, it was playing in the background, I wasn't thinking, I saw you and I just sort of said it, all right?"

"Said _what_ , exactly." It was the Batman growl, and it wasn't remotely a question. His voice couldn't have inflected upward for a question if Killer Croc had been squeezing his balls. 

"I said. . . I said I was dating Bruce Wayne."

Bruce had never wished for his cowl so much in his life. His face felt raw, like there wasn't enough skin on his bones. Clark at least had the decency not to drop his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said. "I truly am."

"You revealed my identity," Bruce said. His abdomen ached, like Clark had punched him. 

"No! God, no. Bruce, no, of course I didn't. Kyle's not even fully initiated yet, I would never do that."

"Good," Bruce said, when he had air back. "Not that that's much better. You shouldn't draw any points of connection between our civilian identities. It's bad enough Kyle knows yours. I never agreed you should reveal that to him."

"He's the Green Lantern," Clark said in some exasperation. "We've had this conversation. Anyway, I'm just telling you this, because I thought you should know about it. I'm going to fix it."

"By telling him you lied?"

"By. . . something like that, sure. Maybe in a few weeks we could break up. Or. . . months, whatever." Bruce glared at him. He tried to remember if his glares had ever worked on Clark. "I mean, I'm sure you'll do something thoughtless, after a while. It's not like our relationship could really last. We're from such different worlds. The important thing is, we gave it a shot."

Bruce reached for the carton of Mongolian beef and took a few bites. "You realize," he said, plucking through the water chestnuts, which he hated, "that the first time Rayner mentions this to Wally—or anyone else, really—they are going to set him straight. Once they have pissed themselves laughing, that is."

Clark was looking at him oddly. "It's not that laughable."

"That a billionaire playboy would date a middle-aged midwestern journalist, that seems credible to you. The only reason Rayner buys it is that he's in love with Superman and doesn't know the first thing about Clark Kent."

Clark said nothing, but reached for the fried rice. He poked at it desultorily. They ate in silence for a while. "You know, you're kind of an ass sometimes, you know that." 

"Then break up with me."

"One of these days," Clark said, "I just might. Hand me the pork."

They spent the rest of the evening in a silence more or less companionable. They avoided any talk of Rayner, or Clark's dating life, and settled for remarks on Oracle's transmissions, or the likely state of the League's duty roster, once J'onn had finished calibrating. Tim buzzed through once, just to report in, and Bruce drew him out about what he was observing on patrol. The boy's instincts were razor-keen, the best natural gift he'd seen. No, he would never be Dick when it came to combat, or Jason for that matter, but he was canny and quick-witted in a way that made Bruce rejoice to watch: agile in both mind and body, but with a hard calculating core that, in his more self-aware moments, Bruce recognized as similar to his own. They chatted for a few minutes, and when he switched off the comm he noticed Clark looking at him in that same odd way again. 

"What?"

Clark's smile was slow, and he went back to his rice. "Nothing. You're just good with him, is all."

Bruce grunted and returned to the monitor. "I'm glad you're not angry," Clark said behind him. "About the Kyle thing."

There were several responses he could have made, and Bruce weighed and considered them all before arriving at the right one. "Whatever," he said, and they continued to watch the monitors in blue-washed silence. 

"Squash coach?" Clark asked, about an hour later.

"Leave it," said Bruce.

* * *

He didn't think any more about it, really. Not that much. It would have been an indulgence to think about it, and Bruce was not given to self-indulgence. So when he was coming out of dinner at the U Club on top of the Heddington Building, each arm around a lithe giggling blonde and each fist curled around a champagne bottle, he honestly and could not for the life of him remember why it was Kyle fucking Rayner was accosting him on the top floor of a private parking deck. The previous bottles of champagne might have had something to do with that, though he never drank as much as he appeared to. 

"Bruce Wayne," the little shit called. "Hey, Wayne!" he shouted again, and Bruce released the blondes. He tossed the keys to the one who looked the most sober. 

"Keep my seat warm," he said to her, and swigged off the champagne bottle. 

"I have an idea what I can do to keep it warm," she said. She curled a hand in his tie and reeled him in. Her mouth on his was delicious, the taste of her distinctively yeasty and musky, and he realized she must have been eating out the other blonde during that last long joint trip to the ladies' room. The thought went straight to his cock, and he dug his free hand into her ass and rubbed against her. 

"Hey, Wayne, I'm talking to you!" Rayner was evidently not going to go away. Bruce pushed the blonde away reluctantly, using one of the champagne bottles to fob her off, and squinted at where Earth's newest Green Lantern was bearing down on him, drunk as a sailor's bitch. 

"I've been watching you," Rayner said. He was right in Bruce's space. The kid weighed maybe half what he did. "I see the way you carry on, screwing your way across this city, drunk off your ass most of the time."

"Call my office for an interview in the morning," Bruce said, patting him on the shoulder. "Get you a tour of the building too."

"You don't deserve him," Rayner said, his voice low and intent. His eyes were dark with menace, his whole body practically quivering. "You know who I mean." And it honestly took Bruce a minute to realize what he was talking about, and then he couldn't help the small laugh that escaped him. Clark's boyfriend was about to beat him up. 

"Go home, kid," Bruce said, his voice more sober and only for Rayner's ears. He let a heavy hand pat the kid's cheek. 

"You're a cheating pathetic drunk," Rayner said. His breath reeked of beer, but he was steady-eyed. Not all his courage came from a bottle.

"Yep, that's me," Bruce said, with a glance at where one of the blondes was revving the Jag's engine and flicking the lights at him. "Listen—"

Rayner's punch was probably meant to land in his abdomen, but it was possible the beers had made him miscalculate, because it landed quite a bit south of there. Had he been prepared for it, that might have been one thing. As it was, he gripped the hood of a nearby car and mastered himself, pushing down the white wall of pain that washed over him. "You need to get out of this garage," he managed, his voice hoarse. "Very, very quickly."

"I'm not afraid of you. Come on, Wayne, let's go a few rounds. You're such a big man, think you're so hot, let's see what you can take. Come on, fight me, goddamnit." His next punch landed in Bruce's midsection, but he was braced for it. He shut his eyes and ground his teeth. If he killed him tonight, would the ring have time to choose a new Lantern before tomorrow's meeting? How angry would Clark really be?

"I'm not going to fight you," Bruce said. His teeth were clenched so hard he could barely get words out. 

"Faggot pussy," Rayner spat, and Bruce cocked an eyebrow, because self-loathing much? "Fight, you worthless—"

But Bruce had had enough, and he grabbed the fist on his next swing and twisted his arm effortlessly behind him. With a swift knee to the back, Rayner was face down on the hood of a car whose alarm was now shrieking. He bent over Rayner's back and put his mouth near his ear. "Do not touch me again," he whispered. "Ever." He gave the wrist a good wrench, just for emphasis, and Rayner's knees buckled. 

He picked up the champagne bottle and strode off to his car.

* * *

The League meeting the following day was mainly interesting for watching Rayner's slightly puffy, hungover face during it. It was also pleasant to see him favor his hand, cradling it in his lap. 

"What's the matter with GL, I wonder," Clark whispered to him, and Bruce allowed himself the smallest smile, just the barest quirk of lip, really. 

In the corridor after the meeting, he caught up to Rayner. "Lantern," he said gruffly, and Rayner turned around, startled. 

"Batman," he said warily. 

"Follow me."

He didn't say a word as he led Rayner down to the third level and through the wide black doors that led to the gym. "Welcome, Batman," purred the computer when he put his hand on the touchpad. He slipped his gauntlet back on, and a second set of doors opened onto a broad empty space with black floors and a wall of black mirrors. 

"Okay," Rayner said, looking around. "So, is this where the Star Chamber meets or something? Because I can also see a little sex dungeon going on, especially with— _oof_ ," and he doubled over, coughing for air, because Bruce had landed a punch in his middle. Not even a punch, really, more of a slightly forceful movement, but Rayner was looking at him like he had just sliced open his femoral artery. "You fucking asshole," Rayner gasped. "What the hell—"

"Combat training," Bruce growled. "That was the motivational speech."

"Ah. Heh. Well, that was. . . very motivational, you infinite dickwad, and I'm glad you finally got that out of your system. But I'm not doing combat training, so please feel free to go right ahead and fuck off." He put his hand on the touchpad by the door like Bruce had done, but the system did not respond. "You're locking me in?"

"Combat training is not optional, for League members. This is an essential part of your formation."

"My formation. Right. Look, I hate to point out the obvious, but this ring makes me just about the most powerful person on the face of the planet, with maybe one exception, so I think I'll be skipping the YMCA self-defense course and going right to the head of the class. Now if you don't mind—"

Bruce grabbed his arm and had Rayner gasping on his back in less than two seconds. "Right," he said from the floor, glaring up at him. He aimed the ring at him. "I didn't want to have to do this, but—" Nothing happened. Rayner looked at the ring. He pointed it back at Bruce. "I don't—what the hell—"

"Your ring won't work in here," Bruce said. "Dampening field. You won't always have your ring. Things can go wrong in this job, every single day. Your training prepares you for that. Combat training is not optional."

Rayner was pulling himself up, and his glare at Bruce was hate-filled. "Fine," he said. "Combat training. Whatever. But I want a different teacher."

Bruce crossed his arms. "A different teacher."

"Yeah, you heard me. Look, you don't much like me, I get that. You wish the ring had chosen someone who wasn't some hipster graphic artist from North Hollywood. I understand that, because personally I wish the League's strategy leader wasn't some fascist black-ops Dracula Rottweiler who couldn't squeeze a pleasant word out his sphincter if it was on fire. We all wish things."

Bruce allowed himself a bark of a laugh. "Bad news. The League has two combat trainers—me, and Black Canary, and you're not ready for her yet. And if you get this mouthy with her, you'll be picking your teeth out of that wall. Now come at me."

Rayner just glared at him. Bruce sighed. "Look, I'm not going to hit you. I need to see how you swing before I can teach you how to do it better. Come on. Aim for my middle, below the line of ribs."

"You're wearing armor."

Bruce reached and unclipped the armor of his midsection, setting it on the floor. "Feel better?"

Rayner was squinting at him. "Not. . . really. Something tells me your abs are just about as stiff."

"I do all right."

It was Rayner's turn to laugh, grudgingly. "Okay, here goes nothing." He landed a punch, which Bruce was prepared for. It confirmed what he had thought the other night: Rayner had more strength than was apparent, for his lean frame.

"Not bad," Bruce said.

"You could at least wince." 

"You can make that your training goal," he said, and Rayner gave another laugh. "Your swing's not half-bad, but I'm more concerned with your eyes. Whether you're using your fist or a ring construct to hit an opponent, you have to keep your eyes off your punch and on your enemy, anticipating his next move."

"Or her." 

"Or her," Bruce acknowledged. "Lean in with your body, move up with your eyes. Try again."

He did, and kept his eyes on Bruce's face this time. He was quick, too—he caught the slight motion of Bruce's hand as he moved it in retaliation, and even got a hand closed around his fist in an attempt at block. "Good," grunted Bruce. "But you're still fighting with half your body. I'm male, what should your first move after your punch have been?"

In answer Rayner brought his knee up with most of the force in his body behind it. "Shit," he gasped, collapsing to rub at his knee.

"Armor. Did you think I had taken that part off too?"

"Kind of hoping," Rayner wheezed. 

"Again. Keep your stance wider this time, it will allow you to shift your balance more quickly." 

Rayner was a fast learner, and his instincts were excellent. There was a vicious edge to him that made him a natural for combat, but more importantly, he was imaginative. He could envision an opponent's next move even if as yet he had no idea how to counter it. When that imagination was allied with the strength of the ring, Bruce could see how powerful he was going to be.

"Stop looking to attack me, and worry about blocking me," Bruce said, deflecting another swing that would have done damage, if it had been in any danger of hitting a body part. Rayner's aim was truly awful.

"I thought this was— _erf_ —combat training," he panted, lunging again for Bruce's most protected area. 

"The first rule of combat is not dying in combat." He brushed aside Rayner's latest thrust, flicking him hard on the wrist before he remembered. Rayner flinched, pulling his arm back close to his body, and Bruce relaxed into stand down. 

"You all right?" he asked.

Rayner winced. "Sure. Just wrenched it a little last night."

"Doing what?"

His wince became a grimace. "Being an idiot. I'm all right, let's keep going."

"You don't want to take a break?"

"No, I said I'm fine, let's go."

"Maybe a warm compress? Some aspirin? How about an ice wrap?"

"You really are a dick," Rayner muttered. 

"My point is that you won't always go into combat feeling your best. Criminals don't wait for you to be in top condition, and no matter how hard you train, you can't guarantee that on the day of a crucial mission you won't have bruised ribs and an ankle sprain and maybe a fever of 101 just to make it interesting. You have to learn to push past the pain, to push it below the level of conscious awareness. Meditation can help with that, and if you want to learn I can teach you that too."

Rayner snorted, the little shit. "Yeah, you're a real Zen kind of guy."

"Actually I was trained in the Jonang tradition, though I suspect you were just using Zen to mean Buddhist, since that's probably the extent of your knowledge."

Rayner came at him again, and this time, when Bruce blocked him, he anticipated the block, and slid just below it. Bruce allowed himself the quirk of a smile beneath the cowl. "Not bad," he said, and Rayner straightened with a grin. Bruce took the opportunity to slice him in the middle, and Rayner crumpled.

"Okay," he gasped, hugging the floor. "I guess I deserved that." He held up his hand while he caught his breath. "Uncle. Time out. Mercy. Whatever." 

Bruce walked to an alcove in the wall and returned with a chilled bottle of water and a towel, which he handed to Rayner. Rayner chugged the water and watched him over its lip. "This is fundamentally unfair," he said. Bruce kept himself expressionless.

"No, I mean really," Rayner continued. "You're bigger than me, about twenty times as strong, and you've spent like, half your life training, probably. There's no way I ever beat you, or even come close."

"That's the way it works," Bruce said. "You learn to fight opponents who are bigger, stronger, and better than you every day."

"Oh is that so. You ever faced down a guy who was better than you?"

"Yes," Bruce said shortly. 

"What happened?"

"He broke me."

Rayner put the water bottle down. "What, as in psychologically? You had self-doubt, couldn't fight afterwards, something like that?"

"No, as in literally. He fractured my spine at the fourth and seventh vertebrae."

Rayner stared at him in silence. "Jesus," he said after a while. "That must have fucking hurt."

Bruce concentrated on flexing and unflexing his hand. The memories were like knives wedged in all his pores, memories not just of his pain but his humiliation. It had been only Clark he could stand to have near him through that long dark recovery time, only Clark who had not made his skin hurt by his very presence. The nights had been the worst. There had been nights anyone else's hand would have been shattered into pieces, he had wrung Clark's hand so hard. So many stupid things Clark had said: _hold on_ and _I'm here_ and _I won't let you go, won't ever_. One time he had wept with the pain, it had been so bad. He had looked over and seen that Clark's eyes were wet too, as he held him. Of all the stupid things to remember. "Yes," he said shortly. "It did."

"And you're not only walking again, you're kicking ass."

"On a good day. On bad days, I am reminded that I am old and held together with metal, and every part of me hurts."

"What do you do on those days?"

"I meditate an extra half hour."

Rayner nodded thoughtfully at this. "You think meditation would work for a guy like me, who can barely hold still long enough to take a piss?"

"I think it was designed for a guy like you. Come on, on your feet, one more round before you hit the showers. And you might ask Dr. Thompkins to take a look at that wrist when we're done. She's used to stitching us all back together, at some point." 

He offered Rayner his hand, and the kid took it with a grin. Rayner tugged just hard enough to make him shift his balance the smallest bit, and then used the leverage to lunge at his middle, which was of course the worst place to try to attack him, but the point was the kid had spirit. Bruce used his standard three step block: wrist extension, twist to the back, knee to keep him down. He released Rayner quickly, not wanting to cause him actual pain, but to his surprise the kid stayed down.

Rayner was just looking up at him, an unreadable expression on his face. 

Damn it to hell. That was the exact block he had used the night before. In the parking garage. On Rayner. 

"Holy shit," Rayner said. 

"Time to hit the showers," Bruce said quickly, turning away.

"Holy shit," Rayner said again. "Please—please wait."

Bruce paused at the door, his back still to Rayner. He heard Rayner struggling up, and then the kid was at his elbow. "Bruce Wayne," he said. " _You're_ Bruce Wayne."

Bruce said nothing, nor did he turn around. "You don't have to say anything. I know I'm right. I know you're not going to tell me whether I'm right." _Turn around, tell him he's wrong_ , pounded in Bruce's head, but somehow he was just standing there. 

"Will you—" Rayner's voice was hesitant. "Will you at least let me apologize for being such an ass last night? If nothing else, it would save me a trip downtown, because I was planning on dropping off a note of apology at Wayne's building."

"Apology accepted," Bruce said. He kept his voice neutral. The kid would have to know eventually. What difference did it make if it were today, or four months from today? 

"So, ah," Rayner said. His voice sounded slightly less diffident. "When Clark told me that about, ah, you and him. Was that—I mean, was that just Clark trying to let me down easy? Because I can totally see him doing that. I was just wondering if, you know, the two of you—"

"Showers," Bruce said gruffly, and stalked out.

* * *

"Glad to see you've come around on Kyle," Clark said. They were in the cave again, but Clark was at least dressed appropriately this time, in uniform. He was reading through monitor transmissions with Bruce, but it was clear he wasn't paying attention. It was also clear he meant exactly the opposite of what he had said, which was another annoying midwesternism Clark was prone to: speaking with stiff-jawed cheeriness about whatever was bothering him. 

Bruce grunted in response, and continued to work on his encryption project. Thanagarian tech was even denser than he remembered, and he was struggling to make headway with even basic code. 

"Is he making progress with combat training at all?"

"Some. He has promise."

"Well that's good news," Clark said. "He's certainly stopped hanging around me quite as much, so must be he's making friends on the team."

"Mm."

"He's pretty dedicated to his combat training. You guys are working together at least, what, four times a week?"

"Probably."

"That's good. Good to see that kind of dedication."

Bruce looked up. "Something the matter?"

"What? I was just saying it's nice, is all. Good that you're taking such an interest in his training."

Bruce went back to his keyboard, but suspiciously. Sometimes even his extended vocabulary did not cover every Clarkism. Clearly the man was bothered by something, but just as clearly he was intent on pretending he wasn't. Midwesterners. "You could help, instead of standing around," he said. "Acquaint yourself with some of this code. It would be useful to have someone able to check what I'm doing."

"What, check your encryption? Isn't the point to keep it safe from people trying to read it?"

"I'm not encrypting it from _you_ , idiot."

"Okay then." Clark sounded marginally more like himself, and he settled down with a scroll of Thanagarian symbols. Bruce watched his eyes flick across the page, familiarizing himself with the strange ciphers. It was hard not to be envious of synapses that worked like that, of the quickness of that Kryptonian brain. Idly he wondered, as he often had before, if Clark was smart even for a Kryptonian. It would stand to reason, knowing what he did of his parents. 

"You know what we should do after this," Clark said. "We should spar some. We haven't done that in a while."

"We spar all the time."

"Well, not so much. Recently, anyway. You've been kind of busy. I mean, I know that having someone to train is pretty time-consuming."

Bruce looked up. Clark was intent on the scroll. "About that," he said. "Rayner knows who I am."

"What? You're kidding. You told him? Jesus, Bruce." Clark didn't look pleased, which surprised him. Hadn't Clark been the one telling him he should have done it months ago? "I mean—what made you decide to do that?"

"I didn't. He figured it out."

Clark's frown deepened. "That's not possible," he said.

"Tim did it."

"Well, Tim. Kyle's no Tim."

"No?" Bruce cocked a curious brow. "He's cleverer than you might think."

"Apparently," Clark said, with an odd bite to his voice.

* * *

"One more round," Rayner said, wiping at his face with a towel. "Come on, I'm good."

Bruce was untaping his hand, and he shook his head without turning around. "That's enough," he said. "Any longer and you might get that wince from me."

"Hah. You're humoring me, sensei."

"I'm not your sensei," Bruce said with a frown. "Sensei is a title of honor, it's not a joke." 

"Sorry. I didn't mean disrespect."

Bruce shrugged, aware his tone had been harsher than he had intended, but also aware that Rayner had taken it. "Fine, one more round," he said grudgingly, and reached for an escrima stick on the wall. He tossed it at Rayner, who caught it wide-eyed. 

"Ah, shouldn't I wear, I don't know, some kind of face shield?"

"I won't be aiming for your face."

"That's. . . not terribly reassuring. Maybe I should put on some body armor."

"I'm not wearing any." Bruce was whipping the sticks around, loosening up a bit. And it was true, he wasn't wearing any protection. After that first day together, when Rayner had put it together about his identity, he had stopped working out in the Batsuit. He had shown up the next day in the simple workout clothes he used when he sparred with Clark. Rayner had stood there with the oddest smile on his face, when he had seen him. He might have been about to say something idiotic like _I knew I was right_ before he met Bruce's glare and subsided. 

Bruce landed the first blow, and though he heard the whuff of the wind leaving him, Rayner did not back down. There was a thin unbeatable core in this kid that made him enjoyable to take a few rounds with. "Eyes on me, not the stick," Bruce said, clipping him on the hip again. "Don't forget what you've learned just because I have a weapon now."

"I don't—like weapons." He spun below the next swing with commendable agility.

"Your body is a weapon," Bruce remonstrated. 

Rayner was in stand down, and looked at Bruce. "Yeah, no," he said. "I don't like thinking of my body that way. I don't want to be that way."

Bruce thought a moment, idly spinning the stick. There wasn't an easy answer, and Rayner's objection was not one to be brushed aside. "I know," he said. "But that ring means you will be going up against people who do think of their body that way, and who are willing to use every inch of it as a weapon. And one day, something will go wrong. Maybe you will have forgotten to power your ring; maybe someone will have taken it from you. In that moment, you can die, or you can live. It's my goal to teach you how to live."

"Why?" Rayner said. He reached for his water bottle and took a quick chug. He stripped off his shirt so he too was down to the loose-fitting pants Bruce favored, and wiped at his pits. "I mean, not to be an asshole or anything, but you sure don't seem like someone on fire with the joy of life. What's your reason for living?"

"The satisfaction of accomplishment," he said, and rapped Rayner on the humerus, but lightly. "Let's go."

The next round went better, with Rayner's reactions more fluid, his focus wider. Bruce even let him advance across the mat and get him to the wall, because he wanted to see if he had any idea what to do next, or how to immobilize an opponent. Better than Bruce had thought: Rayner got him to the wall and the stick to his throat, remembering to keep his stance wide as he pressed Bruce against the wall.

Rayner's smile was slow and gratified. "Now what?" he said.

"Now you would use the stick to render me unconscious. A short sharp blow to the temple, which I will show you how to use."

"Right. Because the League doesn't kill."

"The League kills plenty. I've killed plenty. But never a defeated opponent. We defend ourselves, and use deadly force to do so only when there is no other choice."

"And if there is no other choice?"

"Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, there's another choice. Combat training gives you the room and the time to find that choice." 

He became aware that Rayner had not moved, at all. He also became aware that Rayner was hard, and pressed against him. Rayner's cock was pushing into his. It was stiff and warm through the thin fabric of his pants. They were of a height. Rayner was tall. He was also lean, and lightly muscled, and the look in his eyes was all desire, and Bruce did not remember the last time anyone had looked at him like that. It seemed like another lifetime ago.

"Kyle," he said, and surely he had meant to say Rayner. He was pleased at the steadiness of his voice. "Get off me."

"Bruce," said Rayner, who did not move. The way he said his name was a thrum of longing. Bruce could feel Rayner's cock twitch when he said his name. "Bruce," he whispered again.

"Move. Now." But it occurred to Bruce it would be no trouble for him to push Rayner aside. Surely the same had occurred to Rayner. 

"You're so beautiful," Rayner said in that same tone—just a hoarse whisper, really. Bruce turned his face away and looked at the wall, because _beautiful_. Something stung his throat.

"You are the age of my eldest son," he said. The stick was still at his throat. Rayner was breathing faster than he had during their spar. So was he. He knew his own cock was hardening. He couldn't make it stop. He shut his eyes and summoned the willpower to do what had to be done. "Off," he growled. "Now." 

And then he did push Rayner away—or would have. Tried to, but suddenly there was something pinning his upper body, something he could not move. He looked down and saw the wide glowing band of green across his chest.

"About that," Rayner said with a rueful half-smile. "I might have over-ridden your program there. I'm handy with stuff like that."

"Lantern," Bruce growled. "Release me, or you cannot begin to fathom what will happen to you. Let me tell you the word for what you are attempting."

"I know, I know," Rayner said hastily. "I will, Bruce, I promise, I just—please listen to me. I just wanted to buy a few seconds for you to listen to me. I just wanted—oh hell, I'm fucking this up, I didn't mean to—here," he said, and the iron green band crushing his chest released him. Rayner stepped back.

"I'm sorry," he said, his face ashen. "That wasn't what I meant to do at all."

"What," said Bruce, and swallowed. "What did you mean to do," he said.

Rayner looked at him. His eyes were dark and over-large, always flitting from one thing to the next, missing nothing. Now they were wholly absorbed in Bruce. "I meant to say this," he said softly. "I meant to say, you're all I think about. I fuck my hand thinking about you every night, every single time. I didn't mean for it to happen. Look, Bruce, I'm not an idiot. I know there's nothing between you and Clark, not like that. But what you want, what you need—I'm offering you that. Not anything more, because you wouldn't take it, not from me."

Bruce counted his blinks. Any minute now, he would walk away. "I'm one hell of a fuck, Bruce," he said, in the same quiet voice. "Let me describe it for you. Right here, right now. You could have me on all fours, ass in the air, you could ride me with everything you've got and I would take it. I would fucking love it. You could be rough with me, you could just get what your beautiful cock needed, because I have no doubt that it is a beautiful cock, and I'm betting you could fuck me so hard with it, so good."

There was no more moisture in Bruce's throat. He knew his face was impassive as ever, threatening even.

"Or I could just suck you, if you'd rather," Rayner said. His thick dark hair was curled from sweat, and he wore it a bit too long. "I'm good at that too, and Christ, you would not believe how much I want to suck your cock for you. I'd swallow everything you had to give me and more, and you could do nothing but just feel good. How long has it been since you felt that?"

"I'm going to walk out of this room," Bruce said. He wasn't sure he was even loud enough to be heard, but decades of discipline kept his voice level. "We're going to forget this conversation ever happened."

"That sounds fine," said Rayner. "But I hope you're thinking about what it would feel like to come in my ass. What it would feel like to fuck me while I'm jerking myself, what it would feel like to be in me when I come, and my hole is milking your fat cock."

"That's some mouth you have on you," Bruce observed. The corner of that mouth twitched.

"You have no idea," Rayner said, and despite the boasting words his voice was nothing but stripped bare, as if it wasn't his mouth he was talking about at all, but something else. "Bruce, Jesus, let's just come, I know you want to, can we just come already."

"Go take a shower," Bruce said, and brushed past Rayner on his way far, far away from this room. Or at least, that was what he meant to do.

He didn't mean to grab Rayner as he moved past him, and push him to the floor. He was sure he didn't mean that at all. "Fuck yes," the kid gasped, and there was a hard cock pushing against his, arching up into him, so long, it had been so long. 

Surely he meant to be walking to the showers right now. Even now, in some alternate, saner universe, he was standing under the hot spray of the showers, congratulating himself on his self-restraint, and shaking his head at Rayner's foolishness. But in this messed-up universe, he let a kid Dick's age pull his pants down and dig his fingers into his ass and goad him into grinding against him.

"Fuck you are so hot," gasped Rayner. "Do you want to fuck me, you can fuck me, I can take it, I don't need lube, I can just—"

Bruce kissed him to shut him up, because he figured _shut up_ would probably be rude, even if he put _will you please_ in front of it. But it was like the kid had seventeen mouths or something, because he kept wrenching them free in order to talk some more. "God you feel so good, I knew you would, God that's it right there just ride me, fucking ride me—"

Bruce wrenched his head back with a fistful of that unbelievable hair and pushed his groin harder against Rayner's. He shut his eyes and tried to beat back the waves of his too-hasty orgasm, and might have been successful if it weren't for Rayner's mouth.

"Oh fuck I'm gonna come," Rayner was panting underneath him. "Oh Christ I'm gonna come, gonna come all over you—fuck—"

Bruce bit his lip and turned his head and shot come hard and long, his hips fast and desperate against the warm slick body beneath him. He felt the spreading warmth of Rayner's come, and another spasm was wrenched from his body. He collapsed on top of Rayner, and his forehead hit the black mat of the floor. He rolled off, mindful of the difference in their weight, and struggled to find the center of his breathing. 

Rayner's hand was doing things in his hair—twirling bits of it around his fingers, or trying to, but Bruce kept it too short for that. "That was not. . . what I meant to do," Bruce managed, when he could speak again. He rolled away from Rayner and sat up, keeping his back to him. 

"How did I know you were going to say that," the kid said, that wry smart-ass tone back in his voice. Sadly it was not a turn-off. Bruce stood and reassembled his clothing. 

"You need a new teacher. I'll let Black Canary know you're ready to move onto her instruction first thing tomorrow."

He was toweling off, balling it up to toss it in the corner when he noticed that Rayner, annoyingly enough, was continuing to loll on the floor half-naked and covered in come, a satisfied smirk on his face. It was still not a turn-off, was the hell of it. But then the smirk was quickly gone, and in that split-second Bruce too heard the whoosh of the doors, and Clark was standing there. He even took two steps into the room. Surely he could hear that Bruce's heart had stopped beating.

"So I thought maybe you and I could get that spar, if you two were—"

Rayner's lunge for the remainder of his clothes only made it worse. Bruce wanted to kick the kid. _Have some fucking dignity_ , he wanted to snarl. But he couldn't think or do anything, because of the muscle he was watching in the side of Clark's face. Clark was just looking at Rayner with a level unreadable gaze, and when was Clark ever unreadable? 

"Clark," he said, because the silence needed something, and he didn't understand why it needed to be Clark's name, but apparently it did. And then Clark looked at him, and he shut his mouth, because he thought he knew all of the ways Clark had to look at him, but evidently he had been wrong. 

Clark turned on his heel and walked out, letting the doors whoosh behind him. 

"When you decided to over-ride my program to allow the functioning of your ring, you neglected to replace my security protocols, didn't you?" Bruce was only watching the door Clark had gone out of. 

"I. . . that might possibly be, yes. In retrospect." Rayner was pulling himself together, slipping his shirt back on, even. "Look, I. . . I'm sorry. I didn't know that. . . I mean, I thought the two of you. . ."

"It's fine," Bruce said, and headed to the door without a backward look. 

The thing to do was to find that other universe, with that other, saner, more self-controlled Bruce, and re-inhabit it, as quickly as possible.

* * *

The more he thought about it, the angrier he got.

Clark didn't answer any of his texts. Clark didn't respond to any summons from Bruce on his comm. Clark ignored e-mails. At League meetings, Clark focused intently on whoever was speaking, and didn't so much as turn his head to look at Bruce. There was no lingering after meetings. He got up and walked abruptly to the door. The skin across Bruce's cheeks felt too tight, like he had been slapped. 

But the angrier he got, because where the hell Clark Kent got off he would very much like to know. So he had had sex in the combat room; he was damn sure he was not the first one. A few months ago he had all but walked in on Dinah and Ollie doing the exact same thing. And he was pretty sure Clark and Lois, when they were dating, had christened just about every available surface at the Daily Planet, so a little less self-righteousness about sex in the workplace would be welcome, too. 

That was the speech he arranged in his head, the speech he made up his mind to deliver every time he saw Clark, but something made it impossible to push it past his teeth. The way Clark looked at him filled him with vague. . . panic would be the wrong word. Unease, would be better. Clark had never looked at him like that, or rather, _didn't_ look at him, because he realized now that Clark always checked in with him, visually. Only its absence made him notice it now. Even if it were just a quick flick of his eyes to the side, a shared smirk, a way of expressing agreement—or just as often, disagreement—even if it were only that, it had always been there. And now, nothing.

It was like being slowly strangled. 

He was terrifying close to sending Clark a text that said nothing but _I'm sorry_ , and that made him angrier than ever. He had had no right. No right at all, to stand there looking. . . he flinched from the adjective.

"You should call Clark," Dick said, calmly munching cereal on day nine. His spoon was dripping milk onto the counter with every careless sweep, and he had the _Gotham Record_ open to the society page. The photos of last week's hospital benefit showed him to particular advantage, and Dick was never unaware of his own advantage. 

"Why would I do that?" Bruce asked gravely. He studied his coffee as though it had said something of note.

"Because this fight is annoying as hell, whatever it is, and you're off your game."

"Aren't you supposed to be somewhere right now?"

"Nah, day off. Double shift tomorrow, though. You're sweet to worry."

"And your apartment building is no doubt being fumigated, which explains why you're not in it." 

Dick flipped to the next page, and crunched his cereal loudly. "I was out of Kix," he said. "But seriously. You should probably fix whatever's wrong, before, you know, something goes really wrong. Your concentration's for shit."

"My concentration's fine."

"Bruce." Dick was looking at him now, and on the whole Bruce had preferred it when he was looking at the newspaper. "Just tell him you're sorry already."

"I suppose that would work," Bruce said, "had I done anything to apologize for."

Dick made a noise between a snort and a cough, and returned to his cereal. "Right," he said. 

"You don't know what you're talking about," Bruce growled. 

"Yeah, I'm a real idiot. Look, in just a few seconds we can go back to pretending that I don't know anything about what happened, but why don't you try this fun little mental exercise for just half a second. Try to imagine the situation being reversed—I mean, exactly reversed—and see what you would feel. Because I think we both know how many buildings _you_ would burn down."

Bruce pretended to pour more coffee, knowing he wouldn't drink it, knowing it was just to have something to occupy his hands. He said nothing, because to respond would make it Dick's business, and it very much was not, no matter how much Dick thought everything in the life of everyone around him was more or less his business. He didn't say _I would never shut Clark out of my life this way_ , because that too was none of Dick's business, but also because it was untrue: he would have (and indeed had, once or twice) executed just this sort of slow death. There was every possibility, to be frank, that Clark had learned this sort of cruelty from him. 

He didn't reprimand Dick for knowing things he had no business knowing. That was everything he had taught the boy ( _you say 'boy' knowing he is the same age as the boy you pushed to the ground and came on top of_ , said the insistent voice) and he didn't disapprove; if Dick was too good a detective by far, it was because Bruce had made him that way. He had never thought, when training him, that Dick would turn the same level of disinterested scrutiny to emotions that he himself used for facts and events. 

"You know," Dick was saying, "if you ever did want to talk — and believe me, I know you would rather rip out your molars with a pair of pliers and pound rusted nails into the bloody holes — but if you ever did want to talk, about actual things, you know I'm here. I promise I would even shut up and just listen."

Bruce nodded.

"It's okay," Dick said. "I see you calculating avenues of escape from this room already. I give you permission to flee."

Bruce made a noise that he hoped wasn't a harrumph, but which even to his own ears sounded suspiciously like a harrumph. Dick had returned to his cereal, and Bruce headed to the back stairs that led up from the kitchens. He stopped at the first step, tapping his fingers on the doorframe, weighing his words. "No one else in the house eats Kix," he said. 

"Well, you're missing out."

"What I mean is—" _I'm careful to make sure it's on Alfred's list every week, before he goes to the store_ , was what he meant to say. _Because seeing it on the shelf when you stop by might mean that you stay longer, might mean that you know nothing has changed, might mean that for a half-second when I open the pantry I too can believe nothing has changed_. "Eat as much as you like," was what he said. 

Dick set his bowl down with a casual thunk—he had actually been drinking the milk dregs out of it, of all the revolting habits—and looked right at him. "I love you too," he said. 

Bruce sighed and headed up the stairs. Once, perhaps some four or five decades ago, he had been inscrutable to Dick. He felt sure of it. That part of Dick that could see right through you—he had never trained him to do that. 

It did make him wonder, though, about Clark. Idly he probed at Dick's words, on and off throughout his day, which was a day replete with opportunities for probing. It was a Wayne Corp day, full of endless desk-sitting and meeting-attending and paper-signing, and by three o'clock that afternoon there was nothing feigned about his glower. 

His phone sat black on the desk, its flat glassy leer mocking him. What the hell, he thought, and picked it up. He could send that message. If nothing else, it would be an interesting little experiment. He could even let Clark in on the experiment. He imagined the conversation.

_But. . . but you said you were sorry!_

_I said it so I could demonstrate to you that your real need was to score a victory, rather than to resolve any actual issues. Look how quickly you agreed to talk to me, as soon as I had offered meaningless apologies._

He typed it into the text box: _I'm sorry_. He looked at it for a second before he erased it, one letter at a time, until all that was left was the "I." 

Apparently, possibly right about the time Dick had become a man, he himself had decided to become a petulant teenager. Nicely done, Wayne, he thought in disgust. 

He scrolled quickly past the forty-odd texts from Rayner, who was managing to push past all known boundaries of "impervious to discouragement." He had handed the kid off to Dinah last week, and made it clear that what had happened was a mistake that would not happen again, and yet, somehow, these texts were still happening. That was something else to be pissed at Clark about—apparently one of those evenings hanging out at Clark's apartment, Rayner had managed a peek at Clark's speed dial, so he'd have to thank Clark for that, when he got around to it. Rayner's messages alternated between painful tortured paragraphs explaining why it was crucial that they meet up _right now_ , and sexually explicit texts that made him choke on his coffee.

He tossed the phone in a drawer and shoved Clark out of his head for the rest of the day, counting the hours until he could escape to the Watchtower. After dinner with Lucius, and checking in with Tim and Alfred at the house, it was close to ten before he could suit up and zeta tube to the Watchtower's platform, but that was fine, it wasn't like he was going to sleep anyway. Maybe pummeling his body would earn him a few hours of rest. He ignored both greetings and inquiring looks as he made his way down to the third level. Batman wasn't known for being at the Watchtower unless he had monitor duty, so a few of the junior League members who skittered out of his way in the hall — and God help him, but it was never not soothing, to see that — probably assumed there was some planet-dooming crisis impending, and they would all be summoned to an emergency meeting any minute now. The anxiety would keep them sharp. 

"Batman, Zero-Two," he said at the doors to the inner gym. He hadn't been here in ten days, not since his. . . mistake with Rayner, but he wasn't going to let the memories of that stop him. A ridiculous anomaly, and the sooner forgotten the better. He changed into his workout pants and grabbed a bottle of water, scanning the programs thoughtfully as he swigged from it. "Gamma sequence," he said to the computer.

The walls and floors shimmered with holographic images, and he sighed as the programmed villains and thugs growled at him, swinging their nunchuks and baseball bats. Wearisome. "End gamma sequence," he said, and the bad guys shimmered out. "Try. . . never mind." 

He pressed a button on the wall, and a single punching bag descended from the ceiling, jangling heavily on its chain. It swung there, taunting him. That was more like it. He circled it, assessing, gave it a mocking bow, and began. 

For an hour there was only the sweet release of his body's rage, as he pushed all his frustration out his fists and feet. He became more controlled as he exhausted himself, and for the first time in nine days his brain stopped whirring. There was only the beautiful, mindless rhythm of movement, and he lost himself in it. 

In another time and place, several lifetimes ago, he had not thought he cared much for physical activity. Left to its own devices, his body would have been sturdy and long-boned, but not particularly athletic. He had been positively lanky early in his high school years, and he remembered sitting on the stone wall by the playing fields at Groton, swinging his legs and reading in the golden late afternoon light, the shouts of the lacrosse players a distant background to his book.

 _Come on, Bruce, come play, it wouldn't kill you_. A sweaty golden head grinning up at him, swatting at his knee. He moved away with a grimace. 

_You're filthy, and you smell. And you're in my light._

_It's called exercise, Einstein, try it sometime._ The graceful body swung up beside him. _Harrison and Luke were saying you could be good, they've seen you._

_Harrison and Luke are idiots._

_What's this?_ The book was grabbed out of his protesting hands and held aloft, squinted at. _Bruce, this isn't even English, are you fucking kidding me? What is this, Chinese or something?_

_Ollie, stop it. Give it back, you mouth-breather. Oliver._

Oliver laughed and handed it back with a grin. _You are such a little dick. You realize I'm the only thing that stands between you and the ass-kicking some ninety percent of this school would love to give you, yes?_

 _Yes. But you're still in my light._

Bruce swung another punch at the bag, letting the full force of his upper body land with it, feeling the ripple-shocks through his muscles. He shut his eyes and leaned on the bag for a second, swaying with it. 

"Who's winning?"

He froze with his hand on the bag, feeling the cool prickle of the sweat down his spine, and the cooler prickle of the gaze he had not even felt. How long had it been since he had lost that much awareness of his surroundings, that he could let himself be surprised like that? But of course, only one person would know his security over-rides, and have the temerity to use them. He didn't turn around. 

"Or I guess a better question is, what are you doing here this late at night?" Clark was walking around to get a look at him, his tone of voice for all the world pleasant and even, like they were sharing a carton of Chinese, the infinite asshole.

"What does it—look—like I'm—doing?"

"Beating up a bag of sand instead of me."

He stopped at that, and turned. Clark was taking a circuit of the room, like maybe he had left something in here earlier. "Something I can help you with?"

"Hm? Oh, no. Just checking to see if you were alone in here. I mean, I know you're a classy guy who likes to show his dates a good time, so I figured, you probably have some plans for the room. Don't let me interrupt."

"You're a prick, Kent."

Clark was leaning against the wall, just watching him. He was dressed for work-out, too, and his gaze on Bruce was expressionless. "Let's go a few rounds," he said. 

"Hmph," Bruce said, re-doing the tape on his left hand. 

"How about I make it interesting?"

"By leaving the room?"

"Superman, Zero-One," he said to the computer. "Program Erythro." The light in the room shifted, bled. The warm wash of red made the sweat on Bruce's arm look pinkish, and made Clark's eyes feral. 

"That's not very smart," Bruce observed.

"Why is that?"

"Because under a red sun, I can break your jaw and at least four major bones before you can find your right ass-cheek. First rule of combat training: know your limits."

"Huh. That's weird. Here I thought the first rule of combat training was, use your trainee for sex as soon as you've gained his trust."

He finished his taping and mapped his path: a slice to the ribs, a sweep at the knees, full weight on his spleen. Ended, without permanent damage. Pressure on the eighth and ninth vertebrochondral ribs for pain. "Let's go," he said, tossing his towel aside. 

They circled for a moment, and after the first feints, he saw his opening and dove for it. He was quick, and knew he was quicker than Clark; the foot landed on Clark's thigh, and he heard the outward rush of air that meant the hit had been true. It had been off, though—he had been aiming for the groin. He preferred to think the problem was his aim, rather than Clark's speed. He parried Clark's attacks with ease.

He spun and rolled, knifing an elbow to Clark's kneecap as he went down, and Clark was down too, but only for a second. The small surge of joy he had felt at Clark's gasp had blurred his focus— _your concentration's for shit_ , he heard Dick saying—and Clark had twisted his arm and hurled him into the wall before he could compensate. He let the trajectory take him, rather than resist it, and he channeled the energy of it back into Clark's body. They were grappling now, and their elegant slices and dances had become raw ugly wrestling. 

_Come at me, you son of a bitch_ , he tried to gasp, but Clark rolled them and pressed into his diaphragm hard enough to choke off the air. Bruce brought his legs up—Clark was always neglecting his legs—and twisted them around his neck. He was on Clark now, but Clark used his knees—all right, maybe he wasn't so bad at correcting his errors—to loosen his right arm and slam him back into the floor. Bruce used his left to slam back into his abdomen. Clark rolled off him, making a curious noise. Both his upper arms were shaking, just faint tremors in the triceps, and he was sheened in a sweat that shouldn't be there, for their fifteen minutes' of workout.

"Clark," he said, but "Shut up," Clark growled, and hurled himself back on him. With another twist and roll Bruce was back on his feet, and Clark staggered up. With his next lunge, Bruce parried and twisted, and had him on his knees. The tremor was down to his hands now, even his fingers. 

"Clark," he said, gritting his teeth as he held him in place. He had sustained a bruise to the ribs on that last fall that would show, tomorrow. "Clark, turn off the program, something's wrong."

"Fuck you," Clark panted. "You afraid to fight me? Afraid I don't need my powers to take you? God forbid anyone can take on the Batman and win." With a vicious growl he threw himself backward, using his weight to topple Bruce, who admittedly had not seen that coming. "Fight, goddamn you."

He was in the ready position, but crouching lower than he should be. Bruce could hear the hitch in his breath, see the wet of his forehead. He himself had barely broken a sweat. "Clark," he said, more gently. "Turn off the program. The red sun radiation is too strong, you calibrated it wrong. It shouldn't be hurting you like this."

"The fuck—makes you think—it hurts?" He pushed himself more upright, and Bruce saw him set his jaw. "Come on, you bastard, come for me."

"That's enough. You got your fight, now just—"

"No! Come on, fight me!" And he barreled at Bruce, who didn't even need to step aside; Clark collapsed to one knee three paces from him and retched, heavy and hard. 

"Computer, over-ride, Batman Zero-Two! Over-ride Program Erythro, immediately!"

"Fuck," Clark panted weakly, and the next retch brought a small puddle of bile on the slick black floor. There was a smear of blood on the corner of Clark's mouth. Bruce grabbed his towel and eased him onto the floor.

"Clark, listen to me, I need your passcode, end the goddamn program!" The steady tremor of Clark's limbs was becoming a convulsion. "Computer, emergency over-ride, Batman Zero-Two. J'onn, Diana, anyone," he said into his comm, but of course comms were disabled in here, and without Clark's clearance they couldn't get out of this room, this room that was killing Clark. He shook him to rouse him.

"End it! End it, you motherfucking—"

"Can—fight you—can—sorry—" He rolled out of Bruce's grip and retched again, terrible dry heaves that rent him. "Be—fine if I—ahhh," he moaned, and another, stronger convulsion took him. Bruce grabbed at his head and shook it again, digging in his fingers.

"Clark, listen to me," and he kept his voice pitched low and steady. "Listen to my voice. Trust me. You have to trust me. I need you to say some words for me, can you try that?"

The shaking was back. "Hurts," whispered Clark. "I'm sorry, it hurts, fuck it hurts."

"I know, I know," Bruce said, and he tried to remember every nonsense thing Clark had said to him, those years ago when he had been the one in that kind of pain, when Clark had anchored him. "But I need you to listen to me. Say, _Superman Zero-One_. Say, _end program_. Can you say that for me? Do just that much for me, all right? For me."

"Try." Clark licked his lips. There was swelling in his mouth now; it was possible it would render his voice unrecognizable to the computer. His eyes slid shut. They would find them in here, hours from now, him holding Clark's broken, beautiful body, broken because of his own foolishness and anger and pettiness, and he would pick up his body and walk out the airlock into the emptiness of space, holding Clark's body, just let the dark and the cold end him, suffocate him, as it should have done years ago, and no, no, he would rip down these walls before he let that happen, Clark _had_ to hear him.

"Now!" shouted Bruce in his ear, jolting him back into consciousness, and Clark's eyes focused for just a split-second. "Now, dammit, _NOW!_ "

"Superman, Zero-One," Clark whispered. "End—end—po—program."

The red light fell from the room, and there was nothing but a benign yellow glow, so bright it whited the edges of his vision. Clark's lungs pulled air, his tremors stilled. Bruce was the one shaking now. He lunged for his water bottle and forced it to Clark's lips.

"Drink," he commanded. Clark drank it gratefully. Bruce supported his head while he drank, and wiped his mouth. Already he could feel the steadying of Clark's body, draped across his knees. Clark blinked, and the eyes were his own. 

"Sorry," he whispered. He reached for the water bottle on his own. His hand only shook a little. He made some motion like he might get up, but Bruce pushed him back down. He probably wouldn't have succeeded anyway. 

"New program, I take it?"

Clark's face scrunched in what might have been a wince. "Sort—sort of. I've had that one for a while, but I—made some adjustments. Thought I could—take it."

"It's not like you to make that sort of miscalculation."

"Well I—"

"Just kidding, it's exactly like you to make that sort of miscalculation. To overestimate your own strength, to refuse to acknowledge all variables. How could you be that careless?"

"Oh good," Clark said. "Yelling." He lifted the water bottle again, and rubbed at the back of his head. "I am going to have one hell of a headache." He pushed himself into a sitting position and edged to the wall, tipping his head against it.

"You need to be in the solar bed up in the med bay."

"In a bit. I can get there under my own steam in a little bit. Just. . . wait with me till then."

"It's not like I was going to leave you," he said brusquely.

"I'm sorry about being such an ass," Clark said. 

"Just now? Or all this week? You're going to have to be more specific."

"Both." Clark attempted another shift, and this time the wince was a grimace of pain. 

"Clark. You're hurting way more than you should be. We have to get you upstairs to Leslie."

"Yeah, well, on top of everything else, you beat hell out of me, in case you didn't notice."

He found nothing to say to that, so he watched Clark sip the water, watched his eyes regain focus, watched his breathing even out. "Listen," Clark said. "As long as we're sitting here. I just wanted to say. Actually, I was trying to say. When I came in tonight. That was meant to be an apology."

"An unusual approach."

"I got angry."

Bruce was quiet, and became aware that Clark was now watching him. "I'm sorry I didn't handle it well," Clark said. "Didn't—handle it well at all. If you and Kyle—he's a good guy. If that's what—" Clark turned his face abruptly to the side, and Bruce observed him for any more signs of pain, and then realized Clark had just turned his face away because he wanted not to look at Bruce. "If that's what you want, I think—I will support you in whatever you—fuck," he ended weakly, and swiped a hand across his face. 

"Fuck, I'm sorry, I can't," he said, looking right at Bruce now. "Bruce, you have to understand what I thought when I—" He stopped again. Bruce did not think he would ever complete a sentence, but he was too mystified by what he was trying to say to offer any help.

"Do you remember," Clark said, and suddenly he found the label on his water bottle fascinating. "Do you remember what we talked about, ten years ago? When we—talked about the two of us, about. . . the possibility of that?"

Clark's voice was quieter than quiet, but Bruce's breathing was yet more still. Not once, in all the time intervening, had they ever had this discussion. Not once had it ever been mentioned again. "We agreed it was not a possibility," Bruce said, as calmly as he could manage.

"No," Clark said. "That wasn't it. We agreed it wasn't. . . a good idea. That it would be. . . not good for the team, not good for. . . any number of reasons. We talked about it, and we agreed."

Bruce nodded mutely, because how could Clark just casually throw out such unspeakable, unmentionable things? That conversation had rested between them, all these years, and now he probed at it, unthinking. Because Clark never thought. 

"That was ten years ago," Bruce said at last. As though the distance gave him safety. Statute of limitations, double jeopardy, there had to be something. But there was only Clark's eyes, resting on him. 

"Back then," Clark said. "I was very attracted to you."

Bruce dropped his eyes to the floor. It was curious, what the long chill slice of those words felt like. They thrust clean through the thin wall of skin and blood, and right out the other side. He glanced instinctively down; he was almost astonished to see no blood on the floor from the wound spilling open in his chest. Not that it was surprising. In ten years, he had aged, he knew, tremendously. Not in lines on his face, not in pounds on his middle, not in all the normal benign ways people aged. He had aged in the hundred hideous deformations to his body, the puckers of slick healed skin, the ugly mouth of purpled leering scars. In his face, too, he saw it there: a jaw scored into too-harsh prominence, eyes more sunken. Whatever once might have been, in a certain light and to a certain taste, taken for appealing, had long since faded from him. Clark's matter-of-fact voice told him all that he needed to know, and all that a being of perfect invulnerability must feel when it looked at his scarred, twisted, broken body.

"Well," he said lightly, when he found his voice. "Time can but make it easier to be wise."

"See?" Clark raised a hand in a gesture of futility. "See, that's my problem, right there. Because you can look like. . . the way you do, and you say things like that on top of it, and my God, how am I not supposed to be in love with you? You look like that, and quote Yeats. What the hell hope did I ever have?" 

Bruce blinked at him. "I don't. . ."

"Look, I was just hurt, all right?" Clark was forging on as though he was somehow speaking words Bruce could understand, when in fact his brain had snagged on the one log in the stream it could latch onto, that impossible thing Clark had just said, and everything else was washing over him. 

"Because we had that conversation, all those years ago, and all this time since, I've been thinking, all right, it's the same way for him as it is for me. I had convinced myself, you see, that we had this great romantic, admittedly somewhat nineteenth-century _understanding_ , about where we stood with each other, what we were to each other. Even through dating other people, even through all of that. Stupid, right? Because when we agreed that, before, that was back when I was just attracted to you, and not—not now, when I know—I know—just, everything," and he made that same futile hand motion.

"The thing is, in the time since then, I have traveled in one direction, and you have traveled in another. Opposite trajectories. For me, the more I knew you, the closer we got, the more I fell in love, and you. . . did not, so much. And that's fine. That's where we are. But you deserve to know all of this, because otherwise—otherwise I'm just some asshole who pitches a nutty when his best friend gets laid, and that's. . . that's just not cool." He tipped his head back against the black wall, and his eyes slipped shut, as though the talking had finally exhausted him. 

Bruce just stared at him. _The radiation is still affecting him_ , said the cooler, more logical part of his brain. He edged forward and put a hand on Clark's arm. He could feel no more tremors, and Clark cracked an eye at him, a little ruefully. "Come on," Bruce tried. "We have to get you to Leslie."

"All right," he sighed, and rose, only a little unsteady. Nothing like those Kryptonian powers of recuperation. Clark cocked his head at him. "It's not that I expected you to say anything," he said. "Even if it were just, _that's too bad_. It would just make me feel like less of an idiot, is why I mention it."

"Clark. You're pretty messed in the head right now. Come on, let's get you to Leslie before you run into Booster Gold and start declaring your undying love for him. Let's go."

Bruce hoisted him to his feet, and Clark tried to brush off his arm, but in his weakened state he only succeeded in knocking himself slightly off balance. "Probably should have," Clark murmured. "If I'd fallen for Booster Gold, I would be a happy man right now."

"You would be a lobotomized man right now. Watch yourself. Hang on." Clark walked forward, but staggered after a few feet, and would have fallen again had Bruce not been there immediately. 

"Arm around me," he said. 

"Where have I seen this before," Clark observed, as Bruce looped his arm across his shoulder and supported him. 

"Every other week, is where you've seen it. Steady now."

"Bruce. I can't walk the halls of the Watchtower like this. Please."

He acknowledged the justice of that. "I can get outside the doors, and my comm will work. We can get Flash to take you up to med bay."

He saw the spasm of humiliation cross Clark's face at that. "Or," Bruce said. "The founders' corridor is just above here. That stairwell is hardly ever used. We can go up that way. It will take longer, but I don't think you're in any immediate danger. If anyone comes along, we'll just say it's a routine stairwell inspection."

"Okay. I like that plan. Besides, superspeed right now—I'm pretty sure I would throw up again."

"Here we go, then," said Bruce, and with an ear out for anyone happening by, he maneuvered them out the doors and to the nearby stairwell. He had overestimated Clark's co-ordination on the stairs, however, and on the second landing he realized he had overestimated other things as well. Clark doubled over in pain, and clutched at the railing. His knuckles were white on the metal. Bruce looked for any sign that the metal might be crumpling, but it looked as sturdy as when he himself gripped it. Normally Clark's powers returned more quickly than this, but then again, he hadn't yet been exposed to any pure solar radiation, so he suppressed his concern. The pain, though, he did not understand. 

"Just a little slower," Clark gasped, when Bruce got his shoulders under him again. 

"Fine, if by that you mean a little faster."

"Okay, that's—I can do that too." He could feel the tightness of Clark's breathing. Clark's face was turned away from his. Clark was blinking rapidly. Bruce halted.

"Clark. Tell me how much pain you're in."

"It's fine," he said. His voice was thin.

"Clark. What the hell is going on."

"I don't know. I swear to God I don't know."

"That's it, I'm calling Flash."

"No!" Clark clutched at him. "Bruce, please no."

"How likely would you be to listen to me, if I were the one in need of medical attention?"

"That. . . okay, point taken, but you would still be mad. Just let me rest against this wall here. Med bay is the next landing, I can make that. I just need to rest a second."

Bruce more or less propped him, and studied his ashen face. "You cranked the radiation in that program past the levels you knew were safe," he said speculatively. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I don't know. I thought I could take it. Booster Gold isn't the only one subject to a little macho posturing."

"Right, your boyfriend Booster. Speaking of your questionable attachments, I never told you about how Rayner beat me up in an attempt to defend your honor."

Clark's eyes came into sharp focus. "He. . . what?"

So Bruce told him the story of Rayner and the Parking Garage Showdown, to give him something to think about other than his pain, and he even got a wry smile out of him. "He's a good kid," Clark said. "It's not everyone who will take on Batman for you."

"In fairness, he didn't know I was Batman at the time. I'm not sure he should get credit for that."

"Of course he should, it was very brave. He's a good kid," he repeated. "He'll be—he could be good for you. I can see that. I can try to see it. I'll be okay with the two of you, I will. Just—give me time to make the adjustment, to—"

"For God's sake," Bruce sighed. "I am not dating Kyle fucking Rayner. I had a moment of weakness. I had sex, Kansas. Not every fuck turns into Curly and Laurey in the surrey with the fringe on top." 

Clark raised his eyebrows. "What the hell are you even talking about. What do the Three Stooges have to do with anything?"

"Not the Three Stooges, _Oklahoma_. The musical. With the surrey. Where the wind comes sweeping down the plain?"

"Am I hallucinating?"

"Just get up these stairs." Bruce hoisted his weight again. "You seriously don't know _Oklahoma_? How do you grow up in Kansas and not know that musical?"

"I'm either really hallucinating at this point, or this is the gayest conversation I've ever had. Are you feeling all right?"

Bruce practically pulled him up the last few stairs. "I am feeling fine. And I only made the reference because I thought you would know it. You're missing my point entirely."

"I'm not," Clark said. They were on the top step now, and Clark paused. He swayed a bit dangerously backward, and Bruce braced him. Clark took a few deep breaths, studying his bare feet. "I'm not missing your point," he said again. "You're not with Kyle. Why did you tell me that?"

"Because it's true. What do you mean, why did I tell you that?"

"Did you tell me that because there is any part of you that might want. . . that could conceivably want. . ." And Clark slid a warm broad hand across the front of his chest. It ran on small electric wires to his groin. 

"This is a conversation for when you're feeling better," Bruce said, through gritted teeth. 

"You think I'm somehow delusional at this moment?"

"I think—"

"Bruce." Clark's hand had moved from his chest to his face. They were still standing at the top of the stairs. They were going to overbalance and plummet to their deaths. "Bruce," he murmured. "Bruce, tell me what that meant, you have no idea what I want, how much I—"

"Oh hell," Bruce sighed, and used all his strength to heave Clark over away from the stairs and against the wall. And people said _he_ was solidly built. Those people had never tried to shift a largely insensate Clark two feet in either direction. "Clark. You don't know what you want. You're high on the radiation. Your mind has been affected by—"

"You know that isn't true." Clark's eyes were level. "Look, there is every possibility that I'm going to pass out, not too many minutes from now. Can't we just—" And a finger brushed the side of Bruce's mouth. "Just one," he said. "Don't you want to know."

Bruce kept his voice low and intent. "Clark. I can't kiss you in a stairwell."

"Why not. Because you like to keep it classy?"

"Because if I kiss you, I don't stop."

He was close enough to see the flare of Clark's pupils at that. "Tell me," he said, "about this not stopping."

"I thought you were in pain." 

"Doesn't hurt when we're still."

Bruce nodded, thinking. This was ridiculous anyway. Clark was going to regain his senses in the med bay; he likely wouldn't remember any of this. He supposed he could pretend that he was still a man with sexual ethics and integrity, but then he wouldn't be the man who had pushed Kyle Rayner to the floor and done what he wanted with him. Why would he have that, but deny himself a small taste of this? It wasn't like the chance would come again. Clark would remember nothing. Just one, Clark had said. He could remember it for a long time, unpack it slowly and savor it for years.

"Then stay still," Bruce murmured, and brushed his lips against Clark's, just a tentative pass.

"Oh God," breathed Clark. 

Bruce pressed his lips into Clark's, soft and slow. He wasn't fast, or hard, and he didn't crush into that mouth the way he had in fantasies. It was centimeter by centimeter, letting himself feel and map every small whisper of touch. It was small nudges, hesitant warmth. Clark tasted of bile and sweat, and blood at the corner of his mouth. "Bruce," said Clark. On the next nudge, he felt the soft edge of Clark's tongue. Clark's mouth opened wider. He pushed his tongue inside, and pushed his body closer. His own cock had already started to stiffen. 

"Clark," he said, in what he hoped was not a moan. "Fuck, Clark—" That was when he abandoned the whole gentle nudges thing and just pushed inside, just let the hunger take him. He had waited so long. He dug his fingers into Clark's hips, just below the waistband of his pants. Clark's tongue was sliding along his, as alternately rough and gentle as his own, and somehow he couldn't get deep enough, couldn't fuck Clark's mouth hard enough. 

"Bruce, yes," Clark sighed, and every muscle in Clark's body relaxed into him. At first he couldn't figure what had happened.

"Clark. Are you—" He pulled his head back to look. Clark's head was tipped against the wall, utterly limp. Bruce was the only thing holding his body up.

"You passed out," Bruce remarked, incredulously. 

It was like there was a handbook of Inappropriate Sexual Situations, and the illustration on every page was Bruce Wayne. 

"All right, let's get you some help," he grunted, heaving Clark's prostrate body over his in some approximation of a fireman's carry, and barreled through the stairwell door. He miscalculated around the last turn to med bay, and slammed Clark's head against the doorframe, but Clark didn't rouse. There would be a nice goose egg from that one, unless Leslie restored him to invulnerability soon. A concussion would be just the thing to help him forget being sexually assaulted while in a weakened condition. 

With any luck, Bruce could blame it on the brain swelling.

* * *

He checked on Clark the following day, and found him predictably bored and irritated. There was little he hated more than the solar bed, and he tended to take it out on anyone around him. "This is ridiculous," he announced, as soon as Bruce was through the doors. "In five seconds I'm going to get up out of here and take care of the situation myself. I can fly to the sun at this point. In fifteen minutes I'll be fine again."

"Well, that would certainly be an interesting attempt," Bruce remarked, settling into the chair beside the bed. He noticed Clark had hastily twitched at the sheet to cover himself better, pulling it higher. _Naked_ , Leslie had said brusquely last night, when he had finally dragged Clark inside. _As fast as possible. Can you get his pants off?_ And he had helped her arrange him in the solar bed, aiming the panels at as much of his skin as possible. He had forgotten how porcelain-pale was Clark's skin, but of course it wasn't subject to any sort of burning and tanning. The skin was like silk over the firm muscles beneath. Surely Clark got tired of the Greek god similes. 

"I'm pretty sure you don't want to discover you're not up to full strength five seconds after you step out the bay doors," Bruce observed. "Give it another few hours, and then you can go take a bath in the sun's corona or whatever the hell it is you do."

"Ridiculous," Clark muttered again, petulantly. He had been scrolling through e-mails on his pad, and he tossed it aside. "I'm bored in here. Did you bring me anything?"

"I saved your life. I need to bring flowers?"

"No, but a book wouldn't have killed you. Am I missing anything out there? What's going on?"

"Nothing is going on. You've been here less than twelve hours, and for eight of them you've been unconscious. You're a terrible patient. Try to relax."

"Says you." Clark's mutter was more mutinous this time. 

"You're not going to get better unless your skin is exposed to the radiation it needs," Bruce said with a nod at the thin sheet. "Do I need to leave?"

"No, I . . . fine," Clark sighed. He kicked down the sheet until he was naked again. "In for a penny, in for a pound, I guess. Please tell me no one knows why I'm in here."

"You mean, did I send out a bulletin to the League letting them know Superman had been defeated by his own gym program, and was currently lying prostrate in med bay?"

Clark winced. "You make it sound worse than it was."

"Do I now."

Clark shifted restlessly, and Bruce kept his eyes fixed on Clark's face, so they weren't tempted to stray elsewhere. Clark's movements were still weak, but at least he wasn't in the condition he had been last night. 

"I forgot to thank you," Clark said. "For hauling me here. At least, I assume that's what happened."

Bruce nodded, and looked at the floor. It wasn't like he had thought Clark would remember any of it, and he ought to be grateful that he didn't. "I'm glad you came by," Clark was saying. "I wasn't sure you would."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Bruce. It's not like I was delusional. A little uninhibited, maybe. Imminent death will do that to you." That silenced him, and he stared at the blinking monitors, the glaringly bright panels that illumined Clark's skin, anything to look somewhere else. "Unless I'm wrong," Clark mused. "I could be. You did. . . I mean, what happened in the stairwell. Did I. . . make that part up?"

"You didn't make it up."

"Oh. Okay, then. I was worried that you were unable to look at me because of that."

"No, that's because you are naked. Clark. That conversation we had ten years ago—every reason we came up with then, for why this was not a good idea, those reasons still exist. That hasn't changed."

"Right," Clark said, watching his face. "Sure. Different trajectories. I understand." His hand twitched at the sheet, as though he very much wanted to draw it up, but didn't want to appear to do so. "I think. . . I think I should probably rest now. I'll be better in a bit, like you said. I just need to. . . . close my eyes for a while." He turned his face away, and something solid in Bruce's chest ached and writhed.

Bruce nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He rose, as quietly as he could, and headed for the door. He meant to leave. He truly did. But his life recently was a constellation of what he had not meant to do but somehow did, and everything he meant to do but somehow managed never to. "Not different trajectories," he said to the door handle. That had been a specific decision, a decision he remembered. Sliding body-heat sensor doors in the rest of the structure, but not here in med bay. Leslie had been insistent. 

_That doesn't make sense_ , he had told her. _In med bay of all places, you need to be able to move quickly._

 _Med bay isn't just about moving sick people around_ , she had said. _It's about talking to sick people, too. It takes time to turn a doorknob. Sometimes, people need that time. It's a way of announcing my presence before I'm there, of respecting people's privacy. Surely you understand that._

He had cocked his head at her. That had never occurred to him, but it was one more tell that they had found the right doctor for the League. He put his hand on the solidity of the doorknob. She was right, it was a kind of comfort, to touch something in this most untouchable of places. 

"What did you say?" Clark asked, and that was another idiotic thing Clark did—ask you to repeat something. Like he couldn't hear whispered conversations four floors below them. 

"I said, we weren't on different trajectories." 

"I see."

He continued standing there, with his back to Clark, still studying that stupid doorknob. He wished he had worn the Batsuit. It had seemed like a good idea, to zeta up here right before lunch and check on Clark, and he had been planning on going back to the office. But now he wished he had more protection. If there was anyone who could make him feel naked in a three-piece suit, it was Clark. 

"Bruce. Please come here."

And because he was out of ideas, he did. Clark's eyes missed nothing, and he didn't fool himself that a cowl would have helped. It never had. He sat down again, in the chair beside the bed, and picked up Clark's hand. 

"Please tell me what you're thinking."

He studied Clark's hand like there was something different about it. He flipped it over and studied the palm. He wished that were true, about lifelines. Clark's was long and unbroken. He pressed his lips to the center of Clark's palm, hoping that was answer enough, and from the shudder of Clark's breath, he gathered it was. He held onto the hand. He cradled his face in the hand, breathed into the warm skin of the palm. He pressed a kiss to the inside skin of the wrist.

Clark's swallow was audible. Clark's breathing was notably faster. And because Clark was naked—gloriously, completely naked—he saw the moment when Clark's thick cock began its slow awakening. Just a twitch of movement, at first, before the graceful unfurling from its soft nest of hair. He didn't stop what he was doing with Clark's hand. Clark's other hand twitched at the sheet, pulling it up.

"I'm sorry," he said, and the embarrassment in his voice was a raw quivering thing. 

"No," said Bruce hoarsely, and rose, pinning both his hands on the bed. He kissed Clark then, with his tongue, right where he was not expecting him to: on the spongy head of his embarrassed cock.

"Fuck! Bruce!" Clark groaned, too loud, and with encouragement like that he had no intention of stopping. Clark was still only halfway to hard, so he was able to get all of him in his mouth and suck the whole salty length of him, and Clark pushed so hard up off the bed Bruce thought for a minute he would flip out of it, but Bruce pushed him back down, never removing his mouth. 

"Fuck, fuck—fuck Bruce you have to stop, the door—"

"I locked it," he said, lifting his mouth long enough to speak before re-settling it. 

"Oh God oh God oh God, stop," Clark panted. "Oh—oh God."

Bruce lifted his head again and looked at Clark. "Do you not want me to?"

Clark looked dazed. "What?"

"You said stop."

"No—I didn't mean—don't stop. Please."

Bruce lowered his head again. His bed had been a revolving door for the last ten, fifteen, twenty years, and for a while, he had allowed himself the sharper pleasure of men in his bed, along with the women. He stopped having men in his bed because with women he could stay in better control of his arousal, but also because — in these last ten years — they were too keen a reminder of who he wanted to have in his bed, and could not. If Kyle Rayner had been blond, he probably could have resisted. "I've never done this before," he said, and Clark stilled, brushed a finger against his hair.

"I thought you. . ."

"Yes. But not this." He didn't know why he wanted Clark to know that. Somehow it was important that he did. Maybe he wanted to erase Clark's embarrassment, from before. He re-sealed his mouth around the length that by now was too large for his mouth, and suckled in quiet earnest. 

Clark's fingers shook on his shoulder. "I'm not in. . . very good. . . control right now," he was panting.

"Mm hm," Bruce said, through his mouthful of cock, knowing what the vibration would do to him. 

"I'm trying to tell you—" Clark's whisper was desperate. "Bruce, move your mouth—you have to—I have to—"

"Hm?"

"Shit," Clark gasped weakly, clutching at the sheet, and Bruce's mouth was flooded with hot bitterness. At least he was prepared; it wasn't like he hadn't known what was going to happen, and he knew Clark would have no staying power right now. He swallowed, and he did it loudly enough so Clark could hear, which earned him another dribble of come, which he licked up. "God," he heard Clark breathe, just a whisper of sound, and he wiped his mouth on the sheet. Then a hand closed on his arm and he was lifted onto the bed in one smooth gesture.

"Getting our strength back, I see," Bruce said. 

Clark didn't reply, just pulled him closer next to him. He was frowning slightly, studying Bruce's face, brushing his thumb over Bruce's cheekbones like there were things he needed to find out. "So, not different trajectories," he said. 

"It doesn't change things," Bruce said.

"I know."

"There are too many reasons we can't—"

"I know."

Bruce narrowed his eyes at him. "Is this the kind of I know that means _I will argue about this later_ , or the kind of I know that means _I accept what you are saying as true_?"

"It is. . ." He brushed a bit of hair off Bruce's forehead. He had a strange look on his face, just watching his fingers like he couldn't believe he was doing what he was doing. "Both. Neither. I don't know. I know you can't do this. I know it's not something you could ever do. But just once, let me pretend. Just today." 

Clark's lips were on his, Clark's hand had deftly unzipped his pants, and there was a firm warm hand on his naked cock, working him while Clark's mouth moved down his jaw. He tried to shift at some point and realized he couldn't, that Clark was holding him too tightly. Strangely, that was what made him come—when he tried to twist and Clark's grip tightened. He was trapped, locked in Clark's arms, and instead of panicked it apparently made him hotter than all hell. 

"Oh fuck," he whispered, into Clark's neck.

"Yeah? Gonna come for me?"

His cock surged in Clark's hand, and he bit Clark's neck and came. It was the matter-of-fact tenderness of Clark's voice. Clark was biting his neck back, hard—right beyond pleasure and affection to the white core of pain, and how did he know? What instinct told him what Bruce would like in bed or how rough he needed it to get before he could come his ever-living brains out, like he was all over Clark's hand right now?

Clark's fingers were gentling him through the last of it. He could hear his breath up against Clark's neck, loud in the quiet room. He was lying with his pants pulled down on top of Clark, who was naked. He would feel better about it if he hadn't lied about locking the door.

The bed was not wide enough for the both of them; they were neither of them what one would call small-framed. He closed his eyes and inhaled the smell of Clark. In a few seconds he would get up; in a few more seconds this would not have happened, and he would remember for the rest of his life what Clark felt like touching him, and the timbre of Clark's voice when he said _gonna come for me_. Memories of this would be what he had to live on for the rest of his life.

"I can't," he whispered. "God help me, but I can't." He turned into Clark, burying his head against him. 

Clark shifted underneath him and moved him so he was lying directly on top of Clark. He pulled the sheet up over them both, wiping come off his stomach. "We could do this," he said simply. "We could keep this from having any effect on our interactions with the League. We know how to keep our private lives out of our public ones. We already know that. You know we could do this."

"Impossible," he murmured against the warmth of Clark's skin. What was impossible was knowing now what that skin smelled like, and denying himself. 

"I'll tell you what's impossible," Clark said, as softly. 

"I know," said Bruce. A warm hand gripped his ass.

They lay quiet for another minute. The solar radiation was becoming uncomfortable. It occurred to Bruce he was going to be badly sunburned on his face and hands, and possibly other areas. 

"So," Clark said. "Is that the _I will argue about this later_ kind of I know, or the other one?"

"Hmph. What are you doing?"

"Turning off the panels, unless you want to be crispy in another five minutes. Your coloring doesn't exactly tan."

"Clark."

"Hm."

"I am not remotely tired. It's the middle of the day. Why are we lying here?"

"Well, I'm tired. And I figure, I've missed at least ten years of this, and I'm going to be making up for it, a lot. I don't expect you'll be getting very much done for a while."

There were about a thousand assumptions in that sentence that needed deconstructing, but he said nothing. Clark's arms were tight on him. _Clark is touching me, Clark wants to hold me_ , skittered through his head. "That gym program," he said, and Clark groaned. "Why did you make a mistake like that?"

"I was trying to impress you. I hadn't meant to try it out last night, but I'd been working on it for some time."

Bruce lifted his head. "You were trying to impress me. When the hell did you start trying to impress me?"

"Well, if I had to pin down a time, I'd say right about, I don't know, six seconds after I met you?"

Bruce allowed himself a small smile. "Put your head back down," Clark said, but Bruce said, "I don't think I will."

This time, when he kissed Clark, he tasted like hot sun.

* * *

Kyle sat at the bar and stared into his drink, trying to remember if this was his third or his fourth. He wondered if he could ask the bartender; probably she kept a tally behind the bar, some list titled _pathetic losers who sit at the bar and stare into their drinks_ , and little marks beside it.

Honestly, he had thought this ring was the best thing ever to happen in his life. He had seriously thought that, for at least a good month or so. What a fucking joke. He startled at the heavy hand clapped on his back, and spun around with his fist ready to fly, almost joyful at the prospect of it, because hitting something would feel really great right now. And how sad was that, that he had become a person who enjoyed hitting things? 

"Easy there, man," said the ridiculously good-looking guy. He was there with the other one.

"Nightwing," he muttered, glad he remembered the name. He cut his eyes at the obnoxious redhead, who had already slid in next to him and was digging around in the peanuts. "Flash."

"Relax, Kyle, no one's on duty tonight. It's just Dick and Wally. Probably best if you don't throw those other names around while we're in civvies. Hey there," he said, with a disarming smile at the bartender. "I'll have a JD and Coke, and my friend here—"

"Club soda," said Flash, tossing another handful of peanuts into his mouth. He crunched them loudly. "So this is kind of a dive, huh."

"Fuck off," Kyle muttered, returning to his scotch. 

"Hey, dial it back there," Nightwing said, with another hand on him. If the guy fucking touched him one more time he was going to deck him. "We just wanted to come hang out."

Kyle snorted. "What are you, the welcome committee? Go on, get out of here. I already got my orientation packet, and I don't need anyone to sit with in the cafeteria."

Flash leaned back against the bar, surveying the room. "Yeah, I can see you're pretty overwhelmed, in the friends department."

"Fuck off," he said again, but Flash just grinned at him, apparently immune to Kyle's glares of death. 

"Hey," he said, knocking a knee against Kyle. "We just wanted to say hello."

"And to say, we know you've gotten off to kind of a rough start, in the League." Nightwing had his drink, and was leaning in confidentially, as though they were somehow friends. _The age of my eldest son_. Kyle turned away. 

"Rough start," he said. "What the hell gave you that idea. Everything's been great. Time of my fucking life. What the fuck are you drinking that for," he said to Flash, who was downing his soda. "Are you an alcoholic or something?"

"Wow, you really are an asshole," Flash said. "Dick, next time you have an idea, leave me out of it."

"Alcohol's not a great idea, with Wally's metabolism," Nightwing offered, as though Kyle had been making polite conversation. "Makes him pretty fun at parties, though."

Kyle snorted again. "Yeah, League parties. Those must just be awesome. So is Batman your real father, or what?"

He had the pleasure of seeing Nightwing's jaw tighten, slightly. "That depends, is this your real personality?"

Kyle downed the last of his drink, and waved his arm at the bartender for another. He saw her hesitate, so maybe she just kept the list in her head. Maybe she decided he had babysitters now, so it was okay to hit him again. Maybe he was wrong about that third or fourth drink; maybe it was more like fifth or sixth. He couldn't remember. "Just leave me alone," he said. "What the fuck are you even here for."

"Hey," Nightwing said. He had scooted even closer, because clearly he had no idea of personal space. He had lowered his voice. "Anyone can get off on the wrong foot. We just wanted to say—"

"I didn't get off on the wrong foot," Kyle said. Somehow his head was buried in his arms, which were resting on the bar. He didn't remember that happening, either. "My whole life got destroyed. That's not the wrong foot."

"Kind of a drama queen, aren't you?" Flash was still chewing absently on some peanuts.

"You fucking homophobe," Kyle hissed, and Flash looked at him with startled eyes. 

"It was an expression," he said. "Which you would realize if you could ever move beyond 'kneejerk asshole' to some other setting."

Kyle put his head back down, because fair enough. "It isn't drama," he insisted. "You don't know what happened. You don't understand. I fell in love."

"It happens," Flash said. 

"Or I thought I fell in love. But then I realized that the truth was I was in love with another person. Like really, truly, deeply in love, if that's something you can understand. Only then it turned out this person was actually in love with the other person. Oh hell, you're not going to understand this."

Nightwing had a hand on his back again, only it wasn't as annoying this time. "That's not actually as inscrutable as you think it is. And yeah, we know. And in fairness to you—"

"In fairness to you," Flash continued, "the only people who didn't know those two people were in love with each other was, well, those two people. And apparently you," he said with a small laugh that made Kyle want to punch him.

"What Wally is trying to say, in his oh-so-sensitive way," Nightwing said, and Kyle could hear his stern glance at his friend over top of him, "is that you didn't do anything wrong."

"Oh hell no. I mean, everybody's been in love with Bruce, at some point. It's like a rite of passage."

"Hey," objected Nightwing.

"Present company excepted," he said, with a handwave. "I mean, I'm straight, more or less, and even I had a crush on him for a while, when I was younger. Come on, take a look at the guy, who wouldn't? All that James Bond shit, in _that_ body, not to mention that _voice_ —"

"Do you mind," Nightwing said. 

"Sorry, sorry, just telling the truth. The truth hurts. I mean, no one ever wants to hear that their dad is a sex god, right, but in this case—"

"Stop helping," Nightwing ground out, and Kyle started laughing. Alarmingly, he didn't seem to be able to stop. His back shook with it, and he wasn't sure what he was laughing at, exactly, but the whole thing just seemed so goddamn hilarious. It was either that, or cry. 

"Come on," said Nightwing, with another slide of hand across his shoulder. "Let's get out of here. Wally's place isn't too far away from here, and I figure, we can continue this party there. If you're determined to drink yourself into unconsciousness, you shouldn't do it alone, and you should do it near a comfortable sofa. I think Wally's sofa might actually have fewer communicable diseases than mine."

"Truth. Dick's place is a shithole. How Babs lets him get away with it I have no idea."

Kyle looked at him blankly, which was pretty much how he was looking at everyone right now, in his advanced state of scotchness, but Flash evidently thought he was asking a question. "Barbara Gordon," he supplied. "You know, Batgirl? Well, now she's Oracle. Don't worry, we'll draw you a map of all this. She's Dick's girlfriend."

"She is not—"

"Right, right, whatever. They're supposedly broken up right now, which they do every few years, until one of them realizes that oh, what do you know, they're actually completely in love with each other, and then they fuck each other's brains out over every available surface until they invent some new reason to break up, and the cycle starts all over again. Drama queens," he said, with a nudge of his shoulder against Kyle's. "I'm telling you. They're getting married next year though."

"What? We are not, in any way, form or fashion—"

"Nah, I know, but I'm just saying, it's gonna happen. Hey," he said, with another nudge at Kyle. "There's a betting pool for the date. Slots are closed, but I can get you in for fifty. Smart money says sometime in October, but I've got all the best days already. You want late September?"

"Jesus Christ," Nightwing said. "Please ignore him. He has some kind of disorder. A disorder that apparently includes never showering, so I would walk back those remarks about my housekeeping if I were you."

"Hey!" Flash crossed his arms. "I just showered before we came here. I was working out up at the Watchtower, and I cleaned up. I am squeaky."

Nightwing was cocking his head at him, and Kyle turned to look too. He turned his head a little too fast, because the northwest wall of the bar tipped slightly onto its side, and came rushing at him in a way he hadn't remembered it doing before. Cheap construction, probably. "You did, huh," Nightwing said skeptically. "That why your hair looks like a grease rag these days?"

"What are you talking about, my hair looks fly. I'll have you know that is product, my man."

"Product."

"Hey, I am a very metro guy, I can wear product if I want to. Superman wears product, and look how awesome his hair is."

Nightwing was laughing. "Oh he does, does he. And you would know this how?"

"Because I stole it from him. It was in the showers, and I figure, anything that makes his hair look like that, right?"

Nightwing was looking at him oddly. Kyle tried to tilt his head that way, too, but the bar unfortunately began to tilt in the opposite direction from his head. He tried to follow their conversation, but it was getting a little complicated. Something about Clark, though.

"You used some of Clark's hair product," Nightwing said. 

"Yeah, turn me into the police. A man has to take care of himself, all right? Being well-groomed is not an option."

"So tell me," Nightwing said, and Kyle knew it wasn't just the scotch that made Nightwing's voice sound so odd. "The bottle this product was in."

"What do you care? I don't know, some little brown bottle, probably expensive as shit. Smells like lavender and money. Some kind of special blend, I guess. I've been sneaking it for a while, so you just sit back and watch—pretty soon all the ladies will be flocking to me for a change, unable to resist running their hands through my flowing locks." 

Kyle squinted at him. The whole bar was shaking now. He didn't recall ever being that drunk before. Then he realized it was Nightwing, his head tipped against the bar, laughing so hard he was shaking the whole counter. "Oh my God," he was panting. "Oh sweet Jesus. Wally. You're putting—you're using—"

"Lube," Kyle cut in. "What Hotwings is trying to say, is that you're putting lube on your hair. Which Clark keeps in the showers, because obviously he is having sex in the showers, so thank you for that extremely fucking painful mental image of the two of them doing—just, Jesus, I can't ever get away, it's just _everywhere_ , they're in diptard's fucking _hair_ over here, and I'm just—I can't—"

Nigthwing had rolled onto his back and was laughing so hard Kyle feared for his ability to breathe. Flash's eyes were wide. They were extraordinary eyes: the palest green Kyle had ever seen, and when his hair had been washed, it would be the warmest shade of auburn. Kyle knew colors. 

"Oh my God," Flash was panting. He was beating at his head like it was on fire. "Oh my God get it off, I have buttsex in my hair, get it _off_ —"

Kyle threw back his head and laughed too, and Nightwing had an arm around him; they were doing their best to support each other, but it was a losing battle. The bartender was giving them the definite side-eye. Flash looked like he was having a hallucinatory seizure. 

"Wallace, I love you," Nightwing said, still laughing. He reached across Kyle and seized his friend's shirt, pulling him in closer. He put his mouth on Flash's, and then incredibly Flash's mouth was opening, and they were kissing, kissing with tongues, right in front of Kyle, pretty much on his lap, and holy shit, he was way drunker than he had thought. A small moan came from Flash's throat, and it traveled straight to Kyle's groin.

"Well." Flash lifted his head and gave Kyle a rueful, cockeyed smile. "I did say more or _less_ straight," he said, but Kyle was too busy fishing cash out of his wallet and slamming it on the bar to pay attention. 

"Let's get out of here," he said. "Wally's apartment?"

They peeled themselves away from the bar, and half-staggered out the door: Wally continuing to flail and writhe, Kyle trying to keep the floor more or less level, and Dick holding him up on the other side. He was pressed in between the two of them as they laughed, and Wally slipped an arm around his waist, too. 

This Justice League thing was definitely looking up.

**Author's Note:**

> Clark's adorable midwesternisms are a tip of the hat to my favorite adorable midwesterner, Schemingreader. And the Yeats poem Bruce quotes is "The Folly of Being Comforted," which is a poem about long unrequited love, and watching your beloved age. It is short, so I will inflict it on you in its gorgeous entirety.
> 
>  _The Folly of Being Comforted_ , by William Butler Yeats  
> One that is ever kind said yesterday:  
> "Your well-beloved's hair has threads of grey,  
> And little shadows come about her eyes;  
> Time can but make it easier to be wise  
> Though now it seems impossible, and so  
> All that you need is patience."
> 
> Heart cries, "No,  
> I have not a crumb of comfort, not a grain.  
> Time can but make her beauty over again:  
> Because of that great nobleness of hers  
> The fire that stirs about her, when she stirs,  
> Burns but more clearly. O she had not these ways  
> When all the wild Summer was in her gaze." 
> 
> Heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head,  
> You'd know the folly of being comforted.


End file.
